In America
by Kitty Levina
Summary: Harry, Ron and Hermione are on a road trip in the States. Post-Hogwarts. HHr. Some angst, lots of time in a car.
1. Default Chapter

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything that resides within. It all belongs to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, Warner Brothers, and various executives in England. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue me. All I have is my cats, and I like them a lot.

**Feedback:** Feedback is always appreciated, but be smart about it, please. Thanks.

**Summary:** Harry, Ron and Hermione are on a road trip in the U.S. Therefore, they spend a lot of time in a car, and in hotel rooms. They also eat a lot, for some inexplicable reason. I apologize to Ron for leaving him in Las Vegas, but I'm sure he had a good time. A little angsty, a lot Harry/Hermione, so if neither is your cuppa, just keep it moving, these aren't the droids you're looking for.

**_In America  
_**  
**Needles, CA  
**  
He didn't understand how she could read in the car.  
  
Whenever he tried, and he had tried, several times, somewhere in those square states in the middle where everything looks the same and the road goes on and on, straight enough that it almost makes him think the world is flat after all, whenever he tried, the black words merely jumped up and down on the page. It gave him a headache, right between the eyes, which, as everyone knows, is the best place for a headache. He had rubbed the furrow that was starting to take up permanent residence on the spot and thrown the book in the backseat, hitting Ron in the head. He wasn't particularly sorry he done so, either.  
  
But Hermione seemed to have no problem reading in the moving car, and as a result the car, a rented red Ford Taurus, was littered with books along the backseat, the floor, even the back dash. They were Muggle books, for the most part, classics Hermione had said were necessary to round out her education. He knew for a fact that she had just finished _Great Expectations_, and that it was now becoming prematurely yellowed in its place in the back window. He knew this because he had expressed interest in maybe taking it to read before bed at the hotel, but Hermione had smiled a little, twisted up her mouth somewhere between amusement and irony, and said, "Well, Harry, it's a great book, but it's a bit about an orphan at the beginning, you know, and he lives with an aunt and uncle who . . . don't like him much, so."  
  
"So it's my biography, then?" Harry had said.  
  
Hermione smiled a real smile at that. "Well. Yes. You might be better off with a magazine tonight."  
  
He recalled this conversation as he looked at her out of the corner of his eye, saw where she had pushed the passenger seat back far enough so she could stretch her legs out and prop her feet on the dashboard. She was wearing a red v-neck t-shirt and short kaki shorts (shorter than he would have imagined her wearing), with her hair in a ponytail. Her feet were crossed at the ankle, and bare, toes clipped short and painted red. He wondered idly when her legs had gotten that long. Or that tan. She was, of course, absorbed in whatever book she was reading now, eyes glued to the page as the desert stretched out before them. Glancing again, he saw a title that suspiciously looked like _Dragons of the American Southwest_, and he decided silently not to ask.  
  
Harry blinked in the glaring sun but didn't take his eyes off the road again. Lupin, of all people, (three years after Hogwarts and Harry still couldn't bring himself to call him Remus; dropping the "Professor" was a close as he had gotten), had suggested this trip, practically pushing them across the Atlantic himself. He had said that a car was really the best way to see America, and that he needed the time away now that Voldemort was once again a thing of the past. A road trip seemed like the perfect option to accomplish relaxation and sight seeing, though Harry didn't dwell long on Lupin's eagerness to put an entire ocean between Harry and everything that Britain now required of him. Ron had been eager ("It's an entire CONTINENT, mate!) and Hermione had been willing, and since those were really the only two reasons why Harry had ever done anything, he had agreed to the trip.  
  
Not that it had been the adventure of a lifetime thus far. They had been traveling mostly as Muggles, not because they were unfamiliar with the American wizarding communities, but because, what with having to deal with the car and all (no apperating everywhere for them), it seemed to make sense. It was simpler that way. Harry and Hermione, having essentially been Muggles for half their lives were having no trouble, but Ron was a bit of a different story. Harry had quickly discovered that Ron was not to be trusted in making any kind of hotel reservations the moment they walked into their first accommodations in New York City after their arrival and Ron had not understood the trolley the bell boy used to bring their luggage to the room. ("Why does he have to use that?" "Does he have to actually push it, or does it go on its own? "I have to give him what now? Money? What on earth FOR?") Ron had also managed to book the three of them into one room with a twin bed, single occupancy. After spending the entire night on the floor underneath the working-too-well air conditioner, Harry resolved to make a secret pact with Hermione to let her be the one to book any and all accommodations in the future.  
  
Ron also had the tendency to become carsick at the slightest provocation, as it turned out, either because he didn't have much experience in cars or because he was prone to it anyway. Whichever was the case, he had spent most of the trip thus far curled up in the backseat moaning, when he wasn't regurgitating his breakfast back out onto the side of the road. Hermione had tried to brew him a quick anti-nausea potion in a motel bathroom in Washington, D.C., but it didn't take to Ron, causing a rather itchy rash on his forearm, instead. "Awww, here you go and stop your moaning," Hermione had said two days later, chucking a bottle of Calamine lotion and a roll of Tums into the backseat. "You're an angel of mercy," Ron had muttered, opening the Tums roll and chewing three of them at a time.  
  
Not that Hermione didn't have her own drawbacks. For one, both he and Ron were quite happy to let her read for the entire time, as it kept her from driving, or asking to drive, or getting involved behind the wheel of the car in any possible way. Hermione, it turned out, was an absolutely terrible driver. Harry and Ron had tolerated her bobbing and weaving well enough on the relatively straight highway, but after a harrowing ninety minutes on a road in the north Georgia mountains, during which time Harry was convinced that while he had survived facing Voldemort several times, he was going to die at the hands of Hermione Granger, an American car, and gravity. He had finally emerged from the car white knuckled and to Ron kissing the pavement. Luckily for both of them Hermione put up little resistance to their insistence that she not be allowed the driver's seat again; she seemed to have learned when she was beaten, but took her subtle revenge when Ron was driving by offering her driving advice whenever she felt it was necessary. After being told rather loudly to bugger off somewhere in Mississippi, Hermione remained silent, reading, but everyone in the car knew she had made her point anyway.  
  
It seemed they were driving directly into the sun again, and even though he had to squint, it made Harry feel as if he could continue towards it forever, never losing it, never wavering.  
  
Hermione caught his eye and smiled. "We really should get you some sunglasses. Maybe the clip-on kind?"  
  
"No, I'm good," he said, and squinted some more.

**Las Vegas, NV**  
  
They had spent the previous two days in Las Vegas, where Fred and George Weasley had apperated to meet them the second day.  
  
"You can't just apperate onto the Strip in the middle of the day!" Hermione had hissed.  
  
"My dear Hermione, you obviously haven't been here long enough! We are the least strange thing within a quarter of a mile!" Fred cheerily informed her while George clapped her so hard on the back she stumbled forward and stepped on Ron's heel. "So, where are we staying?"  
  
They were, in fact, staying at the Mirage, which Ron loved because he could get everything he wanted and never have to leave the building, ever. The twins immediately headed for the slot machines, which they found fascinating. Ron, Harry and Hermione roamed from table to table, trying out games and generally loosing their money, except for Hermione, who turned out to be quite the poker player.  
  
"It's all about keeping track of the cards and watching the other players," she had explained as they walked away from the table with her sizable winnings. "Simple, really . . ."  
  
"Yeah, and miniature golf is all about geometry," Ron said, sitting at the blackjack table.  
  
"It is, Ron," Hermione began, but then the dealer had already started and Ron piped up with, "Hit me."  
  
"Gladly," Hermione muttered under her breath. Ron lost the hand with a 23. Harry smiled.  
  
The five of them met for dinner, where Fred and George spent most of their time telling Harry, Ron and Hermione about the slot machines. "They're so bright . . ."  
  
"And noisy," George continued.  
  
"And if you get the right combination . . ."  
  
"You get money!"  
  
"But aren't there huge odds against you winning anything substantial?" Hermione asked around her salad.  
  
"Hermione, that's not the point," Fred said, patting her arm and reaching for the bread basket.  
  
"So what is the point then?"  
  
"The point is, young Hermione, that we're working on a system." George answered.  
  
"Oh, no," Harry started.  
  
Fred held up a hand. "Nothing illegal, mind you. Don't get riled."  
  
"Really?" Ron asked.  
  
"Honest," George answered.  
  
Harry still wasn't convinced, but Ron shrugged, so he let the matter drop. "Do you want to see a show tonight?" he asked instead.  
  
"What kind of show?" Hermione asked. "I was thinking that the magic shows might be worth a laugh."  
  
"Oh, no!" Ron exclaimed. "Those seem so awful! Pulling a rabbit out of a hat? What kind of magic is that?"  
  
"I don't know, Ron. Those Penn and Teller blokes look alright," Harry replied.  
  
"Of course they do, Harry," Hermione said matter-of-factly, sipping her soda.  
  
"I mean, it's a _rabbit_. How is that magical? Plus those little buggers bite . . ."  
  
"What do you mean, about Penn and Teller?" Harry asked over Ron's rambling.  
  
"If it was a hippogriff, then maybe, but a _rabbit_ . . ."  
  
"Oh, for Merlin's sake Ron, the trick is about pulling something out of nothing, not about the damn rabbit!" Hermione snapped quickly. "As for Penn and Teller, how is it that you managed to go through seven years at Hogwarts and not read _Hogwarts: A History_?" she sighed.  
  
Harry shrugged and smiled a little, "We had you, Hermione."  
  
"I'm not that flattered, Potter," Hermione answered, but she smiled. "Anyway, Penn and Teller are real wizards. They graduated from Hogwarts in '66. They just modify their stuff for a Muggle audience."  
  
Ron gaped at her. The twins merely kept tucking into their burgers and fries. Harry laughed outright at Ron's face. "Maybe we should go see them then, check them out, wizards to wizards," Harry suggested.  
  
"I'm in," Hermione said.  
  
"We're going to stick around and work on the slots," George added. "We're close to a breakthrough." Fred nodded.  
  
"Ron?" Harry asked.  
  
"Nah, but thanks. I want to try craps. Sounds like it might be my kind of game."  
  
Hermione managed not to spit her bite of salad out across the table. But only just.  
  
"Oh, grow up, Hermione," Ron groused, and then threw a spoonful of mashed potatoes at her. Later, as he and Hermione were walking back to the hotel from the show, Harry watched people on the still crowded street. Some were drunk, visibly so, staggering or swaying, either alone or with friends. Others obviously had somewhere to go, some show, some appointment, as they were rushing, moving along in groups, brushing other people's shoulders and hands in their haste. The lights were reflecting off of his glasses, creating a strange pin-prick effect on the inside, and he had long since tuned out Hermione's eager analysis of Penn and Teller's show.  
  
"Harry . . . I said, Harry . . . _Harry_, are you listening to me?" Hermione's voice somehow started to penetrate the bright lights around him.  
  
He turned to her. "Huh?" Harry asked, rather articulately.  
  
Hermione gave him a slight reproving look, one eyebrow raised, but didn't otherwise comment. "As I was saying, _Harry_, what would you think about leaving Ron here and driving up the west coast by ourselves?"  
  
Harry momentarily stopped walking. "Why on earth would we do that?"  
  
Hermione linked her arm through his and kept them both walking. "Well. In case you didn't notice, I don't think Ron's been having the greatest time so far. I mean, the car really does make him sick, and he's been having fun here. And what with Fred and George to hang out with, I thought maybe he'd rather stay here, and then meet us, rather than drive with us."  
  
Harry considered for a moment, and was a bit ashamed to admit to himself that he was not as much worried about Ron's feelings as his own—did he really want to leave Ron behind for the next three weeks? He wasn't so sure . . . until he pictured Ron heaving into the bushes outside of Kansas City.  
  
"Do you think he'll want to stay?" he asked.  
  
Hermione nodded. "I think so. But that's not what worries me."  
  
"Then what does worry you?" "Okay, Harry. Give me the worst case scenario: Ron, Fred and George left unsupervised in Las Vegas for three weeks."  
  
Harry pretended to think hard. "They lose all their money and meet us in Seattle broke, dirty and hungry."  
  
"I said worst case scenario not most likely scenario, Harry," Hermione used the hand that wasn't on Harry's arm to punch him lightly in the shoulder.  
  
"Yes. Right. Worst case." He paused. "Ron gets horribly drunk one night, and marries a Muggle waitress, whom he refuses to divorce and ends up having to take home to the Burrow. Fred and George develop their system for the slot machines, but then promptly get arrested and spend the next 12 days in jail, until Arthur has to come all the way from London to bail them out."  
  
"Hmmm." Hermione considered. "Do you think we can chance it?"  
  
"Well, as Ron at least has a decent shot at getting laid should the worst happen, I say we should go for it." Harry grinned at the blush that crept into Hermione's cheeks, visible even in the glow of neon around them.  
  
"Right, then," she said, and quickly bumped her hip into his. And so it was that Harry and Hermione left Ron with the twins in Las Vegas and headed for the California coast on their own, leaving strict instructions on where they were to meet in Seattle, and when, and how no one under any circumstances was to get married or arrested. Or end up on television. As Harry left his and Ron's room in the morning, Ron had patted his shoulders and said, "Good luck, mate," and Harry, for the life of him, couldn't quite figure out why. **Blythe, CA  
**  
Harry woke up in a cold sweat, and couldn't remember where he was, except that he knew instinctively that someone else was sleeping in the room with him, a feeling born out of sleeping in a dormitory with four other boys for seven years and then sleeping more or less alone for the last three. He couldn't tell who the other person was, though, and was reaching for his wand on the nightstand when he caught sight of the shoulder length brown hair stretched out on the pillow on the bed next to his.  
  
Hermione.  
  
Right. Hermione.  
  
He was in a cheap hotel with Hermione. They had headed out from Las Vegas that morning, intending to cut down through southern California to their next major destination, San Diego. They hadn't made it as far as they wanted, and stopped for the night, sharing a single room with double queen beds and one bathroom. They had shared a pizza and gone to bed early.  
  
Right. It was just Hermione. Out of habit, he pressed the heel of his palm to his scar, but it wasn't hurting at all. No burning. No twitching, even. Of course not. He had won that battle six months ago.  
  
Right.  
  
Harry turned his head, hoping to get a glimpse of the clock, also on the nightstand. But he didn't have his glasses on, and the red lights just burned back at him in a small blur. Sighing, he put his glasses on with a trembling hand and got carefully out of bed, peeling back the covers and heading quietly towards the bathroom, working hard not to wake Hermione, whose bed was closest to the bathroom.  
  
Once inside, the lights horribly bright and the door locked, he put down the toilet seat lid and sat down on it, putting his head in his hands. He didn't even remember what the dream was about; he rarely did these days, just woke up sweating and shaking. He couldn't even quite decipher feelings; he was afraid, but not terrified, and what fear he was feeling seemed . . . petty. Blue, but not sad, per se. Annoyed, but not angry. He was feeling a little bit of everything, and nothing very strongly at all.  
  
Eventually he got up, ran the cold water out of the tap, and splashed his face a few times, turning the water off and patting his face off with a towel. Harry took the paper off of one of the glass tumblers and turned the tap on again to fill it. He drank half of it in one gulp and threw the other half back down the drain. He turned the light off before he left the bathroom, opening the door quietly, still hoping he had managed not to wake Hermione.  
  
He thought he had succeeded as he tip-toed back out into the dark. He was halfway back to his bed when her voice floated up into the darkness, "Harry, are you alright?" As he looked over, focused at her bed for the first time, he could see her half sitting up, propped up on her elbows, her eyes tracking him in the moonlight. He had the slightest surge of tension explode in spider-webs across his chest and arms, that feeling of adrenaline that surged whenever he felt tracked, or trapped. He didn't realize he hadn't answered her until Hermione spoke again, this time sitting up all the way.  
  
"Harry?" She sounded flustered, confused; it was a tone of her voice he had not known before a year ago, or that he had ever become accustomed to.  
  
"I'm fine, Hermione. It's nothing. Go back to sleep." Harry reached his bed, and sat on the side nearest Hermione's.  
  
As he had predicted, that answer did not satisfy Hermione. "Did you have a nightmare?"  
  
"No," he sighed. "Not exactly."  
  
"What is that supposed to mean?"  
  
"It means that I don't actually remember. I woke up, got some water, and now I'd like to go back to sleep." He couldn't resist adding, "But only if that suits you, of course."  
  
Hermione was silent for a few moments, but the room was so quiet that Harry could hear the short breaths she was drawing through her nose. "You know. I mean. You're not. Who has. Sometimes."  
  
It was the least well said thing he had ever heard come out of Hermione's mouth. "What?"  
  
"You're not the only one who has . . . trouble . . . sometimes." Hermione's head hit the pillow with a smooshing sound, and Harry knew she had lied back down again. "So you don't have to be all defensive about it., you know."  
  
Harry took the opportunity to lie back down, too, though there was something in Hermione's tone of voice that gave him the impulse to stay sitting up, to ask her what she meant, to argue with her that he wasn't defensive, but she had already turned onto her side, with her back away from him.  
  
"Good night, Hermione," he said instead.  
  
"Good night, Harry," floated over from the other bed.  
  
Before he took his glasses off, Harry noted that the clock said it was 3:48. They found a small café for breakfast the next morning, eating outside in the sunshine and small breeze, on a white plastic table under a large blue and white striped sun umbrella. So far the meal had been mostly silent; neither he nor Hermione mentioned the night before.  
  
"Do you think we can make it to San Diego today?" Hermione asked, pouring milk into her tea.  
  
Harry looked up from his eggs and bacon. "I think so. Shouldn't be too long from here, actually."  
  
Hermione nodded and went back to her toast. "Good."  
  
There was silence for a few more minutes until Harry asked, "We're not in the middle of a row, are we?"  
  
Hermione smiled slightly into her plate but didn't look up.  
  
"I'm serious, you know."  
  
This time, Hermione did look up. "I know. And no, we're not."  
  
"Brilliant. Because for a while here, it felt like we might be."  
  
Hermione quirked the corner of her mouth up. "Obviously, Harry, you have very little experience with arguments. They usually involve a little more yelling. And sometimes the throwing of things."  
  
"Only when it's you and Ron," Harry commented, scooping up eggs with a piece of toast.  
  
"I have never thrown anything at Ron," Hermione countered, indignant.  
  
"I wasn't talking about you," Harry grinned. "Remember that book of spells, sixth year?"  
  
Hermione suddenly grinned, too. "I don't think Ron was aiming at me."  
  
"Well, you're entitled to that opinion. I just think he has a really bad arm."  
  
They both laughed a little, and some of the tension eased in Harry's chest, allowing him to sit back in his chair and drink his tea. The sun glinted off the white varnish of the table, gleaming. **Imperial, CA**  
  
Harry was starting to daydream about plush hotel carpet under his feet and a long, hot bath when Hermione looked up from _Pride and Prejudice_. "Harry, can I ask you something?"  
  
Harry contemplated making a joke, but from the tone of Hermione's voice stopped him.  
  
"Er—alright. Shoot."  
  
"Well. I've been thinking about what to do now that the war is over. And I was wondering if you had any idea about what you wanted to do."  
  
Harry took a second and drummed the back of his hand against the steering wheel. "I haven't really thought about it much. Just getting used to not running around the back woods of England, I guess." He paused. "What makes you ask?"  
  
In answer, Hermione waved the book she was holding. "Just thinking. I've been applying to Uni, you know."  
  
"No, I didn't know. Excellent, Hermione. Muggle university?"  
  
"Yes. I just . . . well, there's so much more out there to learn, to know. Doesn't seem that terrible of a way to spend the next few years." Hermione shrugged, then smiled. "I think that's brilliant," Harry laughed. "Really, really brilliant."  
  
Hermione's smile stretched itself into a grin. "Well, I'm glad you approve, Harry. But you still didn't answer my question."  
  
Harry shrugged. "Just haven't thought much about it."  
  
"You just going to knock around that big old place by yourself?" By that big old place, she meant 12 Grimmauld Place, which Harry had more or less inherited from Sirius, and then from the Order, and where he had been living since he left Hogwarts.  
  
Harry shrugged again, just a slight lift of his left shoulder. "Eh, it's not so bad. I even know how to keep Sirius' mother quiet now," he smiled over at Hermione, only to find she wasn't smiling at all.  
  
"Harry."  
  
"What?"  
  
She sighed. "Harry. No plans? What would you like to do now? Maybe Auror training?"  
  
"To tell the truth, Hermione, no, I haven't been making many life plans. I was too busy trying to figure out how to kill Voldemort before he killed me." His voice was just a tad more brittle than he had intended. If Hermione noticed, she didn't mention it.  
  
He sighed. "As for Auror training, well. I had thought about it, certainly. But I think I've had enough of fighting dark wizards for a lifetime, you know. Well, at least for the next few years, anyway." At that, Hermione did smile at him.  
  
"What about teaching then?" Hermione carefully took note of which page she was on in her book, closed it, and laid it gently onto her lap.  
  
Harry shrugged. Again. "Don't know how good a teacher I'd be."  
  
"Harry!" Hermione laughed, a few full gales of it, and Harry looked over at her, startled.  
  
"What's so funny?"  
  
"'Don't know how good a teacher I'd be.'" She quoted him. "Harry. Do you remember the D.A.? How good we got, at all of fifteen, with you teaching us? And all you've taught me and Ron since then?" Her voice became a bit of an admonishment. "Harry."  
  
"Where would I teach, Hogwarts?" Harry asked her.  
  
"Er—yes." Hermione's tone made it clear that she thought he had suddenly gone daft. "Snape started teaching at Hogwarts when he wasn't much older than you."  
  
"Well, with Snape as a role model . . ." Harry trailed off, amused. "I see your point. But I stand by my example," Hermione huffed, but from years of experience, Harry knew she wasn't really annoyed.  
  
"Besides, I think I'd like to put a little distance between myself and any possible students. Being three years older than the seven years just doesn't seem to command much authority."  
  
"Even if you're Harry Potter?"  
  
"Maybe especially if you're Harry Potter."  
  
Hermione hummed, but didn't respond right away. "You could be an international wizard playboy—travel, see the world, drink on the beach, tropical islands, surrounded by women . . ."  
  
"Be on the over of _Witch Weekly_ every other issue . . ."  
  
"Exactly." Hermione giggled. "Not a bad idea, though, actually. You could use the relaxation."  
  
"And this isn't relaxing?" Harry gestured with one hand to take in the car, scattered with books, soda cans and coffee cups, and Hermione herself.  
  
"Well. It's not the Caribbean with fruity drinks and bikini clad girls." Hermione couldn't stop herself from giggling again.  
  
"This fine, Hermione. Just fine," Harry said, and turned right. **San Diego, CA**  
  
As Harry and Hermione went to check into the hotel, they discovered that the room they'd reserved had not two beds, but one, and there were no other rooms available.  
  
"S'okay, Hermione," Harry had said as they stood at the front desk. "I can sleep on the floor. Or we can get a cot."  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to make the Boy Who Lived Twice sleep on the bloody floor. We're both grown-ups. We can share a bed for one night." Hermione signed the paper the desk clerk put in front of her. "That is, if I can trust you not to seduce me." She sounded serious, but Harry could see the grin at the corners of her mouth.  
  
"Hermione!" Harry tried his best to sound righteously offended. "As if I would take advantage of a young girl like that!"  
  
They started to walk away from the desk towards the elevator. Hermione snorted. "Like I don't know all of your best lines. She lowered her voice into a rough approximation of Harry's. "'Oh, but I just barely survived that last battle!' Or this one: 'We should sleep together now, because we both might die tomorrow!' Oh! And then there's my personal favorite: 'But I'm Harry Potter—I would _never_ make you do anything you don't _want_ to do.'  
  
They stepped into the elevator. Harry put his hand to his chest in a gesture of complete shock. "Hermione! I'm mortally wounded!"  
  
Hermione laughed, but didn't say anything else.  
  
"Besides, I'm certain that it's Ron who uses the 'we might die tomorrow' line," Harry added as they stepped out of the elevator.  
  
"How can you be so sure about that?" Hermione asked as they walked down the hall and she put the electronic key in the door.  
  
"Because he used it on me two years ago," Harry answered as they walked through the door. Harry woke up rather abruptly, but for a few seconds couldn't figure out why. As he lay perfectly still, the room was silent. There was a body next to him, but that was just Hermione; they were sharing a hotel room. They were on a trip together; Ron was in Las, Vegas. He'd been asleep for a while, but had no dreams that he could remember.  
  
So why was he suddenly wide awake in the middle of the night?  
  
He began cataloging his surroundings again. The curtains were slightly open, rustling because they'd left the window cracked, too. The only light was sliding through the opening in the curtains and coming through the crack under the door from the hallway. The bed was shaking, but otherwise the room was quiet. Wait, the bed was shaking? Why would the bed be shaking? He himself was in that perfect stillness that came from years of waking suddenly but not wanting to tip of any enemies. If the bed was shaking, that had to mean . . .  
  
"Hermione?" Harry whispered softly into the darkness, calling as softly as he could. There was no real answer, but there was a slight shift in the bed, and Harry knew she had heard him. He rolled over gently to face her.  
  
Hermione was flat on her back, the sheets pulled up to her chin. Her eyes were wide open, wider even than he thought he'd ever seen them, and even in the dark he could tell that her face was a ghostly white and her knuckles matched. She was shaking almost furiously under the sheets, and her mouth was pressed into a thin, even line.  
  
"Hermione?" he ventured again, propping his head up on his hand and elbow. "Are you okay?"  
  
She didn't say anything at first, but she nodded, and Harry's chest eased a little, though not by much. "Is there anything I can do? What's the matter?"  
  
Hermione shook her head, but a few seconds later she managed to whisper, "It's nothing. I didn't mean to wake you."  
  
Harry managed to pry the fingers of her closest hand off of the sheets and just held her palm in his for a minute, stroking the back of hand. He could see that tears were now squeezing themselves out of the corner of her eyes and running down the very edge of her face towards her ears. "Hermione, please. Was it a dream?"  
  
Hermione shook her head, but didn't speak. Harry continued to stroke her hand softly, and she didn't remove it. After a while she whispered, horse, "Panic attack."  
  
Harry leaned in closer, not sure he had heard her. "What, Hermione?"  
  
"Panic attack. I have them. Sometimes."  
  
"Why didn't you tell me? I've never seen you have one."  
  
He thought that if she were feeling better, she would have smiled. "I usually hide it better. It's . . . embarrassing." She spoke very slowly, as if convincing herself that her voice still worked.  
  
Harry's thumb added more pressure to the back of Hermione's hand. "No, Hermione. Hermione. Don't be embarrassed. There's nothing to be embarrassed about."  
  
She shook her head, but didn't otherwise respond.  
  
After a few minutes, he said, softly, "Tell me what you're thinking."  
  
She was quiet for so long that he was sure she wasn't going to say anything. Then, quietly, "I think . . . I tell myself that it's not going to last long. Five minutes, ten minutes, it'll all be over. I just have to ride it out. I just have to last that long. Nothing's really wrong. I'm here, you're here, everything's okay. Nothing bad is happening. It'll be over soon. It'll be over soon. This won't last forever . . . It won't . . . " Her voice trailed off from the mantra that Harry knew it was. He merely intertwined their fingers and remained silent.  
  
"Everything is okay, Hermione. It's okay."  
  
Harry knew she was feeling at least slightly better because she answered him almost immediately. "I know. I know."  
  
"It just doesn't feel that way sometimes, does it?" Harry supplied.  
  
Hermione nodded. After another long few minutes, she blew out a breath. "I'm okay, Harry. It's okay. You don't have to . . . you can go back to sleep." She turned her face towards his in the darkness.  
  
"Nah, I'm fine. Sleeping's overrated anyway," Harry said, looking at the blur of her nose next to the pillow.  
  
"Really, Harry, I feel better . . . it's fine."  
  
"Brilliant. Then why don't you try to sleep, and I'll just stay right the way I am."  
  
"Harry." She sounded a bit annoyed, which Harry counted as a good sign.  
  
"Hermione," Harry answered, in exactly the same tone of voice. He knew she'd given up when her shoulders relaxed a little, but she didn't take her hand back, and Harry didn't release it. He waited until he could tell from her slow and even breathing that she had gone to sleep again, brushed the back of her hand with his lips, and then settled back against the pillow to sleep himself. The next day, they bought sandwiches and juice and sodas and went down to the beach, Hermione in a turquoise and yellow bikini and sarong, Harry in red trunks and an old black t-shirt.  
  
As they stretched out on the blanket, Harry said, "What was it you were saying yesterday about being in a tropical place and surrounded by beautiful women?"  
  
Hermione laughed, clear as a bell, and the couple in beach chairs next to them looked over. "I stand corrected," she answered as she grabbed an orange juice container and took a swig out of it. "Well. As long as you realize that you were wrong."  
  
"I do."  
  
"So if I was right, then you were . . ."  
  
"You're not going to get me to say it, Harry."  
  
"I will one day."  
  
"No, you won't, Harry." **Santa Barbara, CA**  
  
After spending a few pleasant days in San Diego, and one rather mediocre day getting lost trying to find Brad Pitt's house in Los Angeles ("I still don't understand what you and Ginny see in that Thelma and Louise movie." "Oh, just shut up and take a left, Harry."), Harry and Hermione arrived in Santa Barbara.  
  
In the intervening days, they had come to sleep in the same bed together by unspoken mutual consent, though they didn't come into any other contact than that, though Harry, unknown to Hermione, had taken to holding her hand after she'd gone to sleep. He found it immeasurably comforting, and hoped that when she found out, which he had no doubt she would eventually that she would think it the same. And not, he thought wryly to himself, creepy.  
  
That night in Santa Barbara, Hermione took a long bath with vanilla salts, while Harry had a beer out of the mini-bar and watched a movie on HBO. He kept calling to the bathroom with commentary on the movie, which he knew Hermione was finding increasingly irritating, which was at least 70% of the fun in doing it for Harry. After the movie, while Hermione was still in the bath, Harry took a minute and called Ron in Las Vegas.  
  
"Ronald!" Harry greeted when Ron finally picked up the phone at the other end after 12 rings.  
  
"Sorry, I think you have the wrong telephone, mate," Ron said unnecessarily loudly and started to hang up.  
  
"No, no! Ron! It's Harry! Harry!"  
  
"Oh, Harry, mate! Hello! Still trying to get the hang of these bloody things, you know."  
  
"Yes, even after all these years. Infernal contraptions."  
  
"Are you mocking me Potter? Because I definitely detect some mocking."  
  
"No, no, not at all ickle Ronniekins," Harry laughed.  
  
"So are you calling for any reason other than to make fun of me, Mr. The- First-Time-I-Got-Drunk-I-Heaved-All-Over-the-Shoes-of-the-Girl-I-Was-Trying- to-Get-Into-Bed?"  
  
"Well, not anymore," Harry replied.  
  
"Good," Ron said. "How are you? How's Hermione?" As if on cue, Hermione stepped out of the bathroom in an old Gryffindor t-shirt and black sleep shorts. Harry cupped his hand over the receiver and said, "It's Ron. He says hi."  
  
"So how badly has he screwed himself up so far?" Hermione asked, towel drying her hair.  
  
Harry took his hand off the receiver. "Hermione says she's well, and that she hopes you're having a good time."  
  
"I heard what she really said, you idiot. Your hand isn't that thick. And tell her I love her, too."  
  
"Will do. You are doing okay, yes?"  
  
"Yes. And the twins are still free men, so all in all, this is working out better than expected."  
  
"Brilliant."  
  
"How's your part of the trip going?"  
  
"Good. We're in Santa Barbara now. We've seen a lot of the beach against the Pacific. It's lovely."  
  
"Too sunny?"  
  
"A bit."  
  
"Hmmm. Who would think we'd miss the weather in England? Anyway, I have to go, Fred and George and I are having dinner with three lovely Muggles."  
  
"Don't marry one of them, Ron."  
  
"I won't."  
  
"Ron."  
  
"Seriously."  
  
"Okay. Have fun, then."  
  
"You, too. Take care of our girl."  
  
"I will." He heard the line click as Ron hung up.  
  
Hermione had thrown the towel she was using on her hair back into the bathroom and was drawing a brush through her hair, wincing slightly when she hit a tangle. "So Ron is well?"  
  
"Yes. He sounds like he's having a good time."  
  
"Good. And Fred and George . . ."  
  
"Are not currently in jail, and have not previously been in jail."  
  
"Brilliant." Hermione finished with her hair and flopped onto the bed next to Harry. She smelled strongly of vanilla and Harry involuntarily took a deep breath. "I hate to do this to you, Harry, but I am rather tired. Would you mind if we went to sleep now?  
  
Harry looked down at his jeans and t-shirt, and his empty beer bottle and said, "No, not at all. Just let me change." Later, when Harry woke up, he knew why the bed was shaking. Because he was. His hand went to his head, to his forehead, to run through his hair automatically. He hoped that he could find his glasses on the way to the bathroom. He hoped there was a bathroom. He hoped he could find water there, and mostly, he just hoped that he didn't wake up Hermione on his way to this bathroom that he wasn't sure existed.  
  
"Harry?"  
  
Too late.  
  
So instead of getting up, instead of stumbling his way to the bathroom for a drink, he leaned up one elbow and tried a crooked smile, which even to him was more shaky than crooked.  
  
"Harry, what happened?" Hermione made to sit up but Harry stayed her, pushed her back on the shoulder with his free hand.  
  
"Nothing. Nothing. Dream, that's all. Nothing." He scrubbed his hand across his eyes.  
  
"Do you want to talk about it?" Hermione's voice drifted up towards Harry.  
  
Harry shook his head no, but wasn't sure she would see it in the dark, so he also croaked out, "No. Cedric. 'S'okay."  
  
"Do you want me to get you a drink? I'll get you some water; let me get you some water." Hermione made to get up, and as she did, the scent of vanilla rose with her and before he had even finished the thought, before he had even realized he had the thought, before the thought itself, Harry kissed her. Kissed her, not gently at all, but urgently, with his mouth open, his tongue at her lips, and when her mouth opened in return, he kissed her more, and more, until her head was pressed back into the pillow and her hair was spread around her and all he could smell was vanilla and Hermione and it was more and not enough.  
  
She said nothing, just sighed into his mouth, and it was all he could do to remember to breathe, to move his hands, to press his weight against her body and down into the bed, to pull her shirt over her head, to touch her and to hear her gasp against his collarbone, to find her, to move with her, to press his face against her neck and to play with her hair when it was over.  
  
As they settled down to sleep, together, it was all he could do to remember what had woken him in the first place. And has he found out, he could not. They ordered room service the next morning, loads of eggs and sausages and pancakes and juice and tea and coffee. As she was fixing a mug of what had previously been very black coffee with cream, Hermione asked, "So are we going to have the mandatory morning after talk now?"  
  
Harry rocked back in his chair a little and replied, "I wasn't aware that it was mandatory."  
  
"Obligatory, then."  
  
"Okay."  
  
Hermione scooped eggs onto her plate and said, "You didn't take advantage of me, Harry," in the way that she had, the way that made even the most extraordinary circumstances seem absolutely pedestrian. If the sky had suddenly turned purple and started raining snitches, she would have informed him of that in exactly the same tone.  
  
"I never said that I did." Harry tried to match her tone and failed completely and utterly.  
  
She raised her eyebrows at him. "Just because I dropped Divination doesn't mean that I can't read your mind."  
  
"You can't . . ." he began, but stopped, not entirely sure that she, in fact, couldn't read his mind.  
  
Hermione laughed and stretched her bare legs out from underneath her robe. She had thrown her head back to laugh, and Harry couldn't help but look at the long, now golden, stretch of her throat. She noticed and turned her head for his benefit, so he could see the other side, too.  
  
"But," Harry started. "If you . . . ." Harry seemed not to be able to form much in the way of a verbal thought today. Luckily for him, he was with Hermione, as he always seemed to be at such times.  
  
Hermione picked up her coffee and looked Harry in the eye. "Harry, you may be nearsighted even with your glasses on, but I am not." She smiled. "Besides, you're Harry Potter, and you'd _never_ make me do anything I didn't _want_ to do. Now eat your toast."  
  
Harry laughed, and knew he had nothing to fear. 


	2. San Francisco

**Author's Notes:** See Chapter One for disclaimer. It still applies, I'm sure. Thanks to everyone who reviewed. This can be archived anywhere, just send me the link so I can pop on by now and then.

Also, there's a slash (that means m/m, in this case) relationship that's discussed in this chapter (Remus/Sirius), though certainly not graphically. But if that generally leaves you with any feeling that ends in -ick, then you should probably just skip it.

Finally, sorry for the strange HPs that break up the scenes. I couldn't get this to accept anything else I did here, or in Word. But it should be less confusing. Thanks.

****

**San Francisco, CA**  
  
A week later, Harry and Hermione were wandering up and down an open air market, buying souvenirs. Hermione tugged on Harry's hand to pull him farther down the street and said, "We have to look for Remus. What do you think he would like?"  
  
Harry shrugged. "I don't know? A book?"  
  
Even facing her back, Harry could tell Hermione had rolled her eyes. She looked back over her shoulder at him and stuck out her tongue. "You could try being a little more original, Harry," she said, as if that would suddenly shed light in the previously dark corners of Harry's mind and the right gift would come to him immediately.  
  
As they walked through the crowd on a Sunday afternoon, weaving among the customers and the vendors, Harry was just gratified to feel the weight of Hermione's hand in his. Over the past week, that was what had become marvelous to Harry: all the regular, every day contact he and Hermione had had all along. When she touched her fingers to his passing the sugar bowl at breakfast, or bumped his knee under the table, or patted his arm on the beach: those were the moments that Harry thrilled to. The sex, as expected, was brilliant, but it was when Hermione squeezed his hand over by a jewelry vendor that his heart wanted to leap out of his chest.  
  
He put his hand up to his forehead to block out some of the glare of San Francisco's sun and see better what Hermione was looking at. She was, indeed, at a jewelry vendor, and she had picked up a jade pendant that matched the green and white sundress she was wearing. As she turned it first right, then left, it caught the sun's reflection and glimmered almost white. She went to put it down, and Harry caught her wrist, "Let me get that for you," he said.  
  
"Harry, no," Hermione protested, and her cheeks brushed a pretty, light pink.  
  
"Hermione, really. It's no trouble." Harry started digging in his back pocket for his wallet.  
  
"No, Harry." Hermione giggled. "The size of the pendant is too large for me. I doubt you could even see my face around it."  
  
"Oh." Now it was Harry's turn to blush.  
  
"But the thought was lovely, Harry." Hermione reached up and kissed his cheek before she moved a little further along the vendor's area. She had been looking along the rows of open boxes with cotton and handmade pieces inside when she suddenly said, "Oh."  
  
"What?" Harry asked. He looked around her to try to catch a glimpse of what she was looking at. Hermione reached over and then held up a silver pendant with brown leather straps to hold it together.  
  
"Are you sure, Hermione? It doesn't really seem . . . like you," Harry ventured.  
  
"Not for me, Harry. For Remus." Hermione held the pendant out towards Harry. He leaned over and tried to make out what exactly the pendant was. He could just make out some kind of animal, with its mouth open, inside the silver ring.  
  
"It's a wolf?"  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes—again—and tutted. "It's not a wolf, it's a dog."  
  
Harry squinted. "Are you sure?"  
  
In answer, Hermione turned to the maker, who had been hovering around them, both earlier with the jade pendant and now. "Sir, can you tell me what this piece is?"  
  
"Of course, my dear." The man took the pendant from Hermione's fingers. "This is a silver pendant of a dog, howling. The pendant is held together with genuine leather, and is guaranteed for the lifetime of the piece." He handed the piece back to Hermione, along with a business card.  
  
"Thank you, sir." Hermione gave him a dazzling smile. She turned to Harry. "So what do you think?"  
  
"Why would Lupin want a pendant of a dog?"  
  
Hermione gave him a look he couldn't decipher. "I swear, Harry, sometimes you're more obtuse than Ron." She held up the pendant towards the man to indicate she wanted to buy it. She made the purchase and took the little white paper bag the man handed her, swinging it gently down to her left side.  
  
As they continued to walk through the market, Hermione's flip-flops slapping softly on the pavement, Harry suddenly blurted "_Oh_, Sirius!"  
  
Hermione squeezed the hand she was holding, and looked up at him. "Took you a long time to finally come up with that, Harry." She smiled a smile that could, in the right light, Harry thought, be called a smirk.  
  
"Not all that long, Hermione," Harry said, and fell silent for a moment. "You knew about them?" he asked.  
  
Hermione didn't bother to ask him to clarify his question. "Of course. Anyone who spent any time with them did. That summer at Grimmauld Place . . . they tried to be discreet, I'm sure, what with all of us around . . . but the way they'd look at each other sometimes. I don't know. It's like they just _knew_ each other." She shrugged.  
  
Harry nodded, understanding. "Sirius told me, outright. Said he didn't want to keep secrets from me." Harry half-smiled at the memory. "I think it's the only time I ever saw Sirius embarrassed. Talking about his love life." He paused. "Of course, the keeping secrets part didn't include information about the prophecy." Any smile that the memory of a fidgeting Sirius had brought onto Harry's face promptly disappeared.  
  
Hermione squeezed his hand again, and tugged, leading him toward the right side of the street and the woman selling fabrics. "You know he wanted to tell you. He would have if he could."  
  
"Yeah," Harry said.  
  
They walked a little further, content in silence, Harry listening to the flow of conversation and people around them—a mother trying to comfort a toddler having a tantrum, two girl friends giggling, a middle aged woman having her fortune read in one of the booths.  
  
"It must be hard for Remus," Hermione commented quietly, picking up the thread of the conversation.  
  
"Yeah. About Sirius," Harry murmured, a little unsure about the conversation now that there was a fluttering of sorrow in his stomach.  
  
"Hmmm. About Sirius. About everyone, really. I can't imagine what it's like for him . . . to sort of be the only one left." As she said this Hermione kept walking, though Harry stopped in his tracks. Hermione's perpetual motion broke their hands apart. "Harry?" she questioned.  
  
Harry paused, undone, not sure whether to give out the flip response that was lurking in the corner of his throat, or to tell the truth about why his feet had stopped. In almost the same moment, he knew that it was too late, that if the casual remark was going to come, it should have been immediate, not stuck in his jaw while Hermione looked at him that way, with her eyes questioning and her freckled nose slightly scrunched. He sighed as she stepped back toward him.  
  
"I can. I can imagine it. I have, loads of times," to his utter surprise, his voice sounded absolutely normal. Hermione stood facing him, not speaking, just looking at him, her gaze telling him how hard it was for her to keep quiet, but how she knew that was the right thing to do here.  
  
Harry sighed again. "Well, you know. Facing Voldemort only had a limited amount of outcomes. First being, he'd kill me. Second, I'd kill him. But even if I killed him, I guess I always figured he'd kill everyone I . . . cared about . . . first." He paused, and pursued his lips, as if he could keep the words inside that way. This was the most he'd ever said about what he'd thought during the war, and they both knew it. "I mean. He'd taken away any family I'd ever had . . . my parents, Sirius. I figured he'd even have gone after the Dursleys, if he thought they meant anything to me, or me to them. It just seemed . . . well . . . mostly there was no possible way you and Ron and Lupin and the even the Weasleys wouldn't be next." He hummed softly. "Dying would have been easy, then."  
  
Hermione came up on tip-toe and held his face in both hands, saying "You always did know how to brood, Harry," before kissing him soundly, and for a long time. She held him close for a while, rocking gently back and forth, almost as with a child.  
  
Harry wrapped his arms around her in reply and held tightly until a loud whistle and an even louder, "Get a room!" sounded from a male voice nearby.  
  
Hermione let go abruptly and huffed, nearly stamping her foot. "Bloody rude Americans—stupid gits!"  
  
Harry laughed. "C'mon. Let's go back to that room we have," he said, and guided Hermione down the road with the arm he still had around her waist.

**HPHPHPHPHP**

Harry stepped out of the bathroom that night to the sight of Hermione rooting through one of his suitcases.  
  
"Hey!" he protested, one hand coming up to comb through his wet hair.  
  
Hermione didn't even look up. "Where are your leather pants?" she asked, throwing more random clothing out of Harry's bag.  
  
"I . . .don't . . . what? What?" he asked, stumbling over to where Hermione was and snatching the bag from where she'd set it on the foot of the bed.  
  
She eyed him, amused. "Still have those Seeker reflexes, I see," she commented. "The leather pants," said very slowly, as if Harry were either very young or very stupid. "The ones I know you packed. Where are they?"  
  
Harry continued to clutch the bag to his chest as if she'd just insulted his maidenhood. "What? What pants?" When Hermione outright laughed this time, he switched tacks. "How do you know I own a pair of leather pants?"  
  
Hermione laughed again. "As if you and Ron are really that stealthy. It's good for us you were always on our side; you two would have made terrible death eaters. You both bought a pair, last year, in preparation for Pansy's birthday party."  
  
Harry narrowed his eyes. "You weren't at that party. You had a cold."  
  
Hermione grinned, "But I heard the stories."  
  
Harry had the good grace to blush. Hermione giggled. "For Merlin's sake, Harry, they're only _pants_. And we are going out tonight. So I think you should wear them. Now where did you pack them?" She made to snatch the bag out of his hands, but Harry remained faster than she was, and stepped out of her way.  
  
"We're going out tonight?" he questioned, taking a good look at Hermione for the first time since he'd stepped out of the bathroom. She was dressed in a very fetching, very tight teal tank top that looked blue in one light and green in another, and a rather form fitting black mini that flared slightly at the hem. She had charmed her hair into a French twist, but bits of it were being unruly already, curling around her face and neck. But it was the knee high vinyl boots that really topped the outfit.  
  
"Yes, Harry. We are going out tonight. We are young, free, and in San Francisco on vacation. I'm not spending the entire trip holed up in a hotel room with you."  
  
"You haven't complained about that so far," Harry reasoned, still looking her up and down.  
  
"Well, no. And I'm not now. I just think we should spend some time outside of a Hyatt." She paused. "And what are you looking at?"  
  
"You," Harry answered, simply and truthfully. He could actually watch the blush spread up from Hermione's collarbone to her cheeks.  
  
"_Harry_," she said softly. "It's not too much, is it?"  
  
"I. Er. No, no. Not as long as I get to be your company for the evening, anyway," Harry grinned. Hermione smiled in return.  
  
"Good. Now. Where are the pants?"  
  
He should have known she wouldn't be put off track for long. "In the blue suitcase," he pointed, and watched her open it. She gave a small sound of triumph and pulled out a pair of black leather pants.  
  
"Brilliant. Now, I think you should match them with that black short sleeved shirt you have—you know, they one that's a little shiny." She turned to him and handed him the pants. "Maybe we'll even put a little gel in your hair . . . go with the messiness instead of trying to fight it," she speculated as Harry opened one of the drawers and took out a pair of boxers. Hermione made a bit of a strangled noise.  
  
"What?" Harry asked, closing the door and keeping the boxers in his hand.  
  
"Well, you're not going to wear those, are you?"  
  
"I. No, Hermione, I'm going to put them on my head as a hat." He watched Hermione roll her eyes. "_Yes_, I'm going to wear them." He shook his head, slightly exasperated.  
  
"Not under those pants." At Harry's nod, she added, "Really?"  
  
"Why wouldn't I wear them?"  
  
"Well, I know boys don't think as much about these things, but . . . well. You don't want any kind of lines under those pants." 

"Lines? What kind of lines?"  
  
"Airlines, Harry. Little planes and schedules," Hermione grinned. "Panty lines, Harry."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"In other words, those pants are so tight, you'd be able to see your kickers through them."  
  
"So?"  
  
"So? It's not very attractive, that's all."  
  
"And what am I supposed to do instead?" Harry asked, honestly a bit ruffled.  
  
Hermione laughed, but didn't answer, instead watching as comprehension dawned on Harry's face.  
  
"No. No! I'm not going to not . . . _no_."  
  
"Harry. It's no big deal."  
  
"I. No, Hermione. Everyone will just have to see what kind of kickers I have on."  
  
"Harry. I can't believe you're such a prude!" Hermione was still giggling.  
  
"I am not! I'm not a prude. I just don't feel like . . . I." Harry took a second look at Hermione as another thought struck him. "What about? Are you . . ."  
  
At this, Hermione laughed so hard she had to sit down on the bed. "I'm wearing a thong, Harry. That also helps solve this particular problem."  
  
"Oh," Harry said. Then he grinned. "Well, that'll be fun for later."  
  
Hermione laughed, but she did blush again. Harry suddenly loved being able to make her flush that delightful pink color.  
  
"Good," she said. "Now get dressed so we can get this show on the road."  
  
"Fine," Harry said, keeping his boxers firmly in hand.  
  
"You're really going to wear them?" Hermione asked.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Even if I know you'll look better without them."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Merlin, you really are stubborn," Hermione observed.  
  
"That's a bit of the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it?" Harry asked, removing the shirt Hermione had suggested from the closet. When he looked back, Hermione looked genuinely annoyed.  
  
She gave him a little mock-glare when she saw him looking at her while he pulled his shirt on. "I can't believe our first fight is about whether or not you're going to wear kickers," she said.  
  
He laughed, and looked down to button his shirt. "Oh, c'mon, Hermione, don't be dramatic. This is far from our first fight! We didn't go at it like you and Ron did, but you remember that time . . ." Harry trailed off when he looked up and caught a brief glance at Hermione's face, which was half turned down, suddenly studying the carpet. _Our first fight_, he thought. Oh. _Oh_.  
  
"Hermione," he started, but was interrupted when Hermione slapped her thighs gently and stood up, her manner suddenly transforming into her brisk, business-like self.  
  
"Well, Harry, you just hurry and get dressed now. I'll meet you in the lobby; I had wanted to talk to the concierge about where a good place to go might be." She took a small bag off the dresser and moved towards the door.  
  
"Hermione . . ." Harry started again, but by that time, Hermione was out the door.

**HPHPHPHPHP**

The club the concierge had recommended to Hermione was noisy, clouded and smoke free, since this was, after all, California. They went to the bar first, Harry ordering a Coke and Hermione a water, as Harry had yet to turn 21, though only by a little more than two weeks, and Hermione wouldn't be of age in the States until even later. Neither wanted to go to the trouble of being carded. The bartender looked less than happy with the cheap orders, but Harry tipped him well, which seemed to take the slight frown off his face.  
  
Hermione watched the dance floor while Harry watched Hermione. She had chatted amiably in the cab on the way over, and Harry had answered in kind, though he knew that the stream of conversation was an even worse sign than if Hermione had been quiet. She talked about everything and nothing at once: the view, wondering how Ron was doing, what the club would be like, if the car was okay where they had parked it. The only thing that kept Harry from being seriously worried was the fact that she hadn't yet launched into some fascinating tale of rebellion that they had heard in History of Magic. Mostly she acted as of nothing had happened, and Harry was tempted, at least for the moment, to pretend it was nothing, too.  
  
He watched as she brought the water up to her lips, drinking occasionally, drumming her nails first on her thigh, then on the bar. Her head was bobbing a little to the music, unconsciously so, Harry thought. He saw her eyes as they roamed over the people around them, stilling here or there on someone particularly interesting looking to her. A young woman who had leaned over between them to get a drink order in jostled against Hermione's back a little, though Hermione didn't seem much ruffled by the contact.  
  
They stayed like that for many minutes, and the bartender looked about ready to ask them if they needed anything else, and rather peevishly at that, from the look on his face, when Hermione suddenly jumped off the stool. "Come," she said, holding her hand out to Harry. "Let's dance."  
  
So dance they did. Hermione found them a spot on the dance floor, which was harder than it should have been, and started to move. Harry had never been that good of a dancer, mostly due to self-consciousness, he thought. He could never quite let go of that part of him that always felt watched, looked at, Boy-Who-Lived scrutinized, and therefore, no matter how much he wanted to just be normal, he could never really let himself relax. When they were in school, he and Ron and Neville would spend hours some Sunday nights practicing dancing together; Neville, surprisingly enough, was quite a good dancer, for all of his apparent clumsiness. Ron used to joke that if only Snape would play music in potions class, Neville might suddenly become much more coordinated. Harry didn't doubt that the suggestion might actually have proven to be true if put into practice.  
  
So here amongst a throng of Californians, Harry strived to be passable, and went back to watching Hermione, to watching how she moved, how the strobing lights hit the contours of her body; behind her knee, up her thigh, the concave curl of her back. She moved, he noticed, mostly to the bass line, as if the shaking he could feel in his chest, and which he could vicariously sense in hers, was what made her feet go in, out, side to side, her arms, up, down. He watched her face that had a look of quiet intensity, as if, dance, like all things to Hermione, required a certain amount of attention, and a pinch of concentration. Harry thought, in a rush of realization so acute it made the air leave his lungs in a rush, that the only time he had seen her face lose that keen look of attention, of intelligence, was when they made love, and it made him stumble backward slightly, into a man taller than he was, who grunted slightly, but moved to the side to give Harry additional room. If Hermione noticed that his place on the dance floor had changed, she didn't mention it, coming back to him with a slide of her hips and quick shuffle of feet.  
  
They were well into their fifth song when Harry saw Hermione's face change, just slightly, tinged with blue that was coming from the swirling lights around them, red coming next to highlight some of the slight copper in her hair. She bit her lower lip, just briefly, and then suddenly turned and disappeared into the crowd so rapidly that if Harry hadn't known better, he would have thought she had apperated right out of the club.  
  
A bit bewildered, Harry started off after Hermione, trying to find her, following in the general direction she had gone in. Though he tried, he couldn't see her at all in the crowd; he was tall, but not tall enough to see through the swarm of wriggling bodies. He gingerly went in the direction of the loos, but a long line for the women's told him quickly that unless Hermione was causing the hold-up, she wasn't in that area. He briefly thought about how useful a Marauder's Map would be at a place like this as he worked his way back through the crowd, again in what he thought was the direction Hermione had taken. This time, he noticed a door at the back marked with one of those lovely red Muggle exit signs, and opened it until it was slightly ajar.  
  
There Hermione sat, on a small step leading to the alleyway in front of her, the dumpsters that were lined up and down the street clearly marking what the alley was used for. Harry came out of the door fully and let it shut with a brief click behind him. She had tucked her knees up toward her and rested her chin on top of them. Harry sat down on the step next to her but didn't comment.  
  
"If this weren't bloody California, I'd be able to have a god-damn cigarette," Hermione said abruptly.  
  
"I didn't know you smoked," Harry said mildly.  
  
She shrugged. "Not very often, really. But it makes me feel better. Sometimes."  
  
Harry nodded but didn't say anything, content not to push Hermione, and a little unsure of what he would say, anyway.  
  
Eventually Hermione sighed. "Sorry about that back there. Crowds just make me jittery sometimes."  
  
"Yeah," Harry acknowledged.  
  
"I don't know. Too many people make me feel . . . trapped. So I get a little anxious. I guess it reminds me of . . ." she trailed off.  
  
"Death eaters?" Harry asked casually, as if he'd just mentioned the name of some innocuous school club.  
  
Hermione shot him a look that was a lot shrewder than he actually felt comfortable with. "Well. Yes." She paused. "How much of that do you remember?"  
  
Harry shrugged. "Not much, actually."  
  
"Yeah, well. There were a lot of them," Hermione scrunched her shoulders up, then let them back down again.  
  
They sat in silence for a little while longer until Harry could tell by her slower breathing that Hermione had to have relaxed slightly. "Look, Hermione . . . about earlier . . ." he started.  
  
She didn't even pretend that she didn't know what he was talking about. "I'm sorry, Harry. I was being . . ."  
  
"A girl?" he provided for her, but smiled and tipped his shoulder against hers, softening any sting the words might have had.  
  
Hermione tried a smile back. "Well. Yes." She started to open her mouth to continue, but Harry stopped her, placing the tips of his fingers on her lips.  
  
"Hermione, listen. I'm not very good at this stuff. You must know that. I mean, you saw what a mess I made out of all that Cho business."  
  
"You were 15, Harry," Hermione said. "I would hope that you'd have learned _something _between then and now."  
  
"See, that's just the thing, though. I haven't. Or I didn't. Or something. It's like, while we were in school, I was so busy worried about Voldemort, or passing my classes, or taking extra DADA lessons and Occlumency lessons and dueling lessons, that, well, while everyone was off growing up, learning this stuff, I was . . ." he searched to find the right words. "Well, I was off with Snape learning to keep him out of my mind while he kicked the stuffing out of me."  
  
Hermione laughed slightly, and put her hand on his knee. "And while you were doing that, what did you think we were doing? Having special classes with McGonagall titled 'How to Behave in Romantic and Sexual Relationships'?"  
  
Harry thought about it briefly. "Er. Yeah, actually."  
  
Hermione laughed a real laugh this time. "We weren't, Harry. Everyone in the world, the two of us included, has just been left to muddle through it ourselves."  
  
Harry turned that over in his mind, but continued. "Maybe. But at least you all, I don't know, got to practice a little? At least with each other? Isn't that part of what school was supposed to be about? I don't know, I just feel like . . . I missed that. I had no practice. And then after Hogwarts, it was just more of the same, only more intense. More fights, more battles, more work. More fear." Harry took a breath. "Sirius was right in some ways. I am a lot less like my father than we thought."  
  
Hermione knitted her eyebrows, but didn't say anything yet, except, "Harry."  
  
"No. My dad . . . my dad, he was good at stuff, without even trying. School, friendships, girls . . . I've always had to work at it. At all of it," he finished, lamely.  
  
Hermione took his hand in hers. "Harry. We all have to work at this stuff. On our work, on our relationships. No one has it all figured out." She laughed a little ruefully. "Not even me."  
  
Harry started to contradict her, but Hermione was firm. "Harry. I may be smart. I might be the cleverest witch of my age. But I always have to work at things. We all do. That's part of life. Part of the fun. Anything that's worth something is worth working for. I'm sure even your dad knew that." She smiled. "Besides, if you'd listen to Remus for half a second, you'd hear that your dad had to work awfully hard at wooing your mum."  
  
Harry thought back to the scene he'd seen in Snape's Pensieve. "Maybe you're right." 

Hermione squeezed his hand. "Of course I'm right."  
  
Harry brought their hands up to his lips and kissed the back of her hand. "I am sorry for being an insensitive prat before."  
  
"Apology accepted," Hermione said, "on the condition that you continue to try to muddle your way through this with me."  
  
Harry kissed her on the lips this time. "Of course." He could feel her smile against his mouth.


End file.
